The Struggle
by kaeyes
Summary: Sherlock's return isn't as simple as he expects when he finds John engaged...and approaching fatherhood. Rated T for safety.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock sat on his chair, legs pulled up to his chest and curls dangling loosely from his forehead. With no subtlety or manners he eyed his prey, dissecting each movement and word.

He didn't like Mary. Mostly it was because he couldn't find a reason not to like her. She was kind enough, he supposed, often offering coffee or tea. John looked at her in a way Sherlock had never seen before; it wasn't the same amazement he'd received. It was gentler.

"So," Mary said, sitting on the chair horizontal of Sherlock, "I don't know where to begin. I have so much to ask." She tamed her hair wistfully, placing it behind her ear and revealing stark green eyes. Even with underlining bags from a long night of crying, she was beautiful. Even Sherlock, the subject (he knew) of the sobs, was fully aware.

John handed Sherlock a cup of tea he hadn't asked for and pulled up a kitchen chair. More than Mary and Sherlock, he felt awkward and unsure of what his role would be this night. His desire for the two most important people in his life to get along was so intense that he knew anything he said would be too forward. _Like each other_, he wanted to scream. _Just hug already_.

Sherlock had only been back in John's life for two weeks, both of which were filled with tears, broken furniture, a broken nose (Sherlock's; he still wore the bandage), and slammed doors. The relationship was finally starting to heal as John realized the sacrifices Sherlock had made for him and Sherlock realized the pain and danger he'd put John through.

When Sherlock learned that John was engaged, however, Sherlock's face fell.

"_Who is she?"_

"_Mary. She's a sweetheart, Sherlock. You'll like her."_

"_I don't approve."_

"_Why not? You haven't even met her."_

"_I don't have to. Let's just get a dog."_

After several hours of bickering and ten minutes of John threatening to burn a violin to ashes, Sherlock agreed to a meeting.

And here they were, Sherlock staring in hatred, Mary in fascination, and John in horror.

"I guess I should start out by saying thank you," Mary said, leaning forward. Sherlock's ears perked up a bit but he did his best to hide interest. "After all, you did save John's life. I don't know how to show my appreciation."

_Suck-up_, Sherlock thought, but he felt a rare twinge of guilt as the thought crossed his mind. "I put John in a compromising position," he muttered instead. "I did what was necessary. Thank-you's are rather uncalled for." In his peripheral vision, he caught a wince from John. "But I appreciate your gratitude," he added quickly.

As John relaxed and Mary smiled, Sherlock sighed. Ever since his return, he'd been nothing but obedient to John. He reminded himself constantly that he owed the man nothing, that he only did what he had to do, but when he saw the joy in John's eyes when he returned and the tears that fell shortly afterwards, he was reduced to a servant.

Not that John was aware of it. He was, in a most pure state, grateful that his friend had returned from the grave. For all he cared, Sherlock could go on performing experiments in the kitchen sink, buying foreign (and deadly) bees, or complaining about Mycroft and Anderson. All John wanted was for Sherlock to eat at least one meal a day, sleep a minimum of five hours a night, and play the violin at least once a week.

He threatened to burn the instrument often, but he never would. Not really.

Sherlock looked at Mary once more. _Thirty-six. Middle-class. Tired. Hates Harriet. High-stressed job. Happy with John. Mother of one._

"What's your son's name?" Sherlock asked.

Mary blushed as John's face fell. "You feeling okay, Sherlock?"

"Of course. Why?"

"Your deduction skills are off. Mary isn't a mother." He turned to Mary and ran a hand through her hair. "Sorry, dear. He's just…it's how he is."

Mary looked at the ground and picked at her fingers. "John," she said, briefly looking up at Sherlock, "I'm pregnant."


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock dismissed himself; from the look on John's face, he wasn't sure if he'd crossed a line or aided in cause for celebration. Head on his pillow and knees in the air, he stared at his bedroom's ceiling, feeling rather concerned because _he just wasn't sure_…about any of it.

"…didn't you tell me?" he heard John say.

"…know how…scared…"

Sherlock saw John as a father. Easily. The man was kind but strict. Just the other day Sherlock had attempted to bathe himself in peanut oil to see what would happen. For science. John put an end to that real quick, offering a four minute lecture before setting him in front of the television to watch Jeopardy and yell at the "idiotic" competitors.

With a kid around, Sherlock figured, John wouldn't have time to father him. Soon he would be free to experiment, to go days without eating or sleeping, to plot havoc against Anderson.

"…make it work.

"…two bedrooms…"

It was with the force of a brick dropped from a skyscraper that Sherlock realized he couldn't stay.

He closed his eyes and sighed. How had he missed it? Even if they weren't going to have a child, they were engaged. John was about to start a family, of which Sherlock was no part. 221B was finally being outgrown.

With the determination and stubbornness of a beaten man, Sherlock grabbed his suitcase and immediately started packing. He would stay for the night and be on his way. Though he knew where he would go, he didn't let the thought pass his mind; Mycroft's home was as boring and large as its owner.

He'd almost finished packing his clothes when John knocked on the door and let himself in. "Sherlock, you can't go blabbing people's pregnancies out—" John stopped and looked at the mess. Sherlock sat on his bed, contemplating whether to throw out his four dozen test tubes or take them along. "What are you doing?"

"I don't know, John. Make a deduction." Sherlock frowned, unsure why he'd snapped, but continued packing.

John cleared his throat and leaned against the wall. "Mary, can you come here for a second?"

Mary came in, looking rather pink and flustered as she gazed about Sherlock's room. She'd never seen it before; over the past three years, John always left it locked. Her imagination of scientific equipment was nowhere near the scale Sherlock had maintained. Tubes, papers, calculators, pens, liquids, and a surprising number of unidentifiable objects were scattered everywhere. She wasn't sure why she'd assumed that this complicated man would have anything in his life organized.

"What's going on?"

"Sherlock's packing."

Mary tilted her head and sat next to Sherlock. He didn't give her a second thought; in the process of packing his casework, he'd found a file that grabbed his attention. "Sherlock, dear, where are you going?"

Sherlock's lip curled, but he didn't look up. She sounded like Mycroft ordering seven-year-old Sherlock to never try to run away again. "John, look at this," he demanded.

After giving Mary an apologetic glance, John sat next to Sherlock and read over his shoulder. _Burial is to be this Thursday. _"What?"

"Why would it be Thursday? Michael died days ago."

John rubbed his face and leaned back. _Not again._ Since his return, Sherlock had been working for a grocery store concerned that their employees were being murdered by one another. Sherlock solved the case, but not before a seventeen-year-old kid named Michael York was stabbed six times in the chest.

"The murderer killed for a better chance at a promotion," Sherlock had explained. "Why would he kill a child?"

No one knew, and the matter was dropped. Sherlock wasn't convinced.

"I don't know, Sherlock," John said, leaning against the bedpost. "Maybe that's when the family can be in town."

"Days! Why did they do that?" Sherlock was up, pacing and staring into the paper as though answers would present themselves through speech. John grabbed Mary's hand and clenched his teeth. Since Sherlock's rise from the dead, he'd taken on four cases, all of which turned out to be merely routine. He was desperate for a good crime; he hadn't seen one in years and now, returned to London, he needed something to entertain his mind. John often wondered how Sherlock spent those three years, but whenever he tried to ask, Sherlock's eyes watered and he had to excuse himself.

"You think there's something more to it because you want there to be," John said, standing. He placed a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder and forced him to sit. "Listen to me. The case is closed. The killer just ended up enjoying his…killing. It happens. We've seen it before. Please, drop it. Now unpack your things and get ready for supper. Mary's making chicken."

"I'm going to Mycroft's and—"

"I wasn't asking."


	3. Chapter 3

The chicken was dry. Sherlock sat, hunched over his plate, leaning his head on his fist. He wanted to work on his case. John watched him with irritation, making sure he actually chewed and swallowed each bite.

Mary tried to make conversation ("Nice weather, isn't it?") but the answers were always flat, if there were any at all. She sighed to herself, unsure what to do with this new creature living in her home.

Then, it wasn't really her home. She was keenly aware that the residence was, and would always be, Dr. John Watson's and Sherlock Holmes'. Forever she would be a visitor, a second-wife to the doctor. But that was fine. Honestly. She saw how John lit up when he took care of Sherlock; he complained more but was visibly shining. Everything—the food, the sex, the attitude—had improved with Sherlock's return. A part of her fiancé that she didn't know was missing had returned. She was more than willing to pay the price of adopting Sherlock into her life.

Even if he didn't want it.

"Did you unpack?" John finally asked.

"No."

"You will right after dinner."

Sherlock bit his lip. "Yes."

"Good." John looked to Mary for conversational help, but she was done trying. "Listen, I know we only have two bedrooms, but it'll work out. We want the baby to stay with us for a while, anyway."

"You're getting married, John."

"Yes."

"I'm not part of that chapter in your life."

"Absolutely. Who else will teach him how to deduce crimes and analyze corpses?" Sherlock's smile made John's fade. "That was a joke. No corpses."

"I know," he whined. He looked over at Mary. "You're okay with this?"

She put an arm around her new child. That's what he was to her, really. A burden, yes, but also the final puzzle piece to their broken family. "Of course."

**ONE YEAR LATER.**

"John!" Sherlock screamed. He'd just finished changing the diaper when yet another one was needed. This wasn't easy.

"Calm down," John said, rushing in with supplies. He looked at Sherlock, a flustered mass of ruffled hair and sleep-deprived mannerisms, and started to laugh. "You're fine. Throw that one out and start again."

"Make it stop!" Sherlock was becoming increasingly frustrated, and Mary's entrance wasn't helping anything.

"Oh, Sherlly!" she wailed. He groaned and stepped away from the baby as Mary pulled out her camera phone. "Come now. You're too precious, you know that?"

Sherlock growled and sat, defeated, in his chair (which was now covered in toys and rags). He didn't like the new creature. It smelled, cried, and took up far too much of John's time. "John," he whined, "Let's go work on the Michael case."

John finished dressing his son and hugged Mary. "No, Sherlock, we're staying in today."

"But we stayed in yesterday."

"Well, one more day won't kill you." He smiled and tried to hand the baby to Sherlock, but he sank into his chair. "Come on; just hold him while I clean up. He likes you."

"No he doesn't. He cries every time I touch him. Come on, John. Let's go out."

John handed his son over to Mary and sat in his chair. "Sherlock, I told you. I promised Mary I'd spend the weekend helping her. You need to get acquainted with him, anyhow. You'll be spending a lot of time with him."

Sherlock looked out the window. No experiments, no cases, no bodies. He was cooped up, forced to be involved with this…thing that John—for some unknown reason—wanted.

"We'll go tomorrow," John promised. "Until then, hold your brother."

Sherlock froze as the baby was handed to him and Mary and John went to the kitchen. Was that his new role? He cursed himself for not seeing the signs earlier. John was taking care of him, unsure how Sherlock would behave after his return. Mary, he realized, saw him as a broken man. A kid that needed looking after. A burden that needed a caretaker. The couple wanted Sherlock to fit into their family—why that was, he wasn't sure—but he needed a spot where he could be taken care of. He needed to fit in where he could be managed and loved.

Brother he was. What scared Sherlock the most, as he looked down at Hamish, was that he wasn't sure he minded.


	4. Chapter 4

"Stop it!" Sherlock screamed.

"No! Mine!" Hamish victoriously pulled, for the ninth time, Sherlock's left ear.

John sat at the dining room table, wearing his old black rimmed glasses and a coy smile. Sherlock could outsmart anyone, he knew, except a four year old. The two children had been watching television, Hamish comfortably situated in Sherlock's lap, when ears and noses suddenly became very interesting.

"Boys, play nice," he called, though a part of him wished they wouldn't.

"But John!" Sherlock picked the boy up, placed him on the ground, and sat at the table with John. He looked plain lazy; his robe hadn't come off in two days, and his hair hadn't been touched in at least three. "Make him stop."

"You can take care of yourself, Sherlock. Why don't you go read or something?"

Sherlock's eyes rolled. He'd just solved Michael's case—yes, five years later—and everything else paled in comparison. All other cases were solved within a day, maybe two. "Can't we go do something?"

"Take Hamish for ice cream."

"No. No Hamish."

Looking up from his laptop, John realized that he hadn't spent time alone with Sherlock in weeks. He'd been busy working at the clinic, running Hamish around, or wooing Mary to the best of his ability. "You know what? That sounds like a good idea."

Sherlock's still-red ears perked up. "Really?"

"Yeah. I need to run some errands, anyway. You can run around with me. Let's just wait until Mary gets home."

"Why?"

"We can't leave Hamish alone, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked over. "Well why not?"

Sherlock showered and John relaxed until Mary came home; Sherlock's coat was put on so vigorously that John felt a twinge of guilt in his stomach. The man hadn't done much in days. He hated even to go out alone; since his return, Sherlock was constantly looking for attention, if not at least someone else to be in his general vicinity.

The pair arrived at the grocery store twelve minute later (seven of which Sherlock spent complaining that his ears hurt). John grabbed a hand basket and pulled out his phone for the list. "Do we need anything else?" he asked, handing it over to Sherlock.

"Vinegar."

"Vinegar?"

"I read this study last night," Sherlock said, eyeing a pack of colored marshmallows. "I'm curious to see if it would work. What do you think bathing in vinegar would do to a body?"

John snatched the phone back. "I guess we'll never know. Marshmallows?"

Sherlock pointed at the bag he'd already managed to sneak in. Sighing, John pulled out the box of brownie mix and whipped cream that'd magically appeared in his basket. "Choose one." Sherlock grabbed the marshmallows and started plopping them into his mouth. "We need milk, too," he said.

"I just bought two gallons the other day."

"They're gone."

"Have you been feeding those stray cats again?"

Sherlock ignored the interrogation and continued down the aisle. "Hamish slept in my bed last night," he mumbled. "I had to sleep in his."

John tried to hide a grin. He and Mary had originally worried about living space, but placing Sherlock and Hamish in the same bedroom was working nicely. Hamish was down by eight, and, out of habit, Sherlock was never too far behind. Both boys had their own twin bed, dresser, and nightstand, but occasionally Hamish decided that Sherlock's bed was better. Many nights, when John and Mary went to check on them, Hamish was curled up at the foot of Sherlock's bed, and Sherlock was sprawled out on Hamish's slightly smaller mattress.

"Have you two been getting along?" John asked, knowing full well the answer.

Sherlock groaned but said nothing. He secretly liked Hamish; the boy was clever and stubborn, something that reminded Sherlock of himself (in an annoying sort of way). Several weeks after the boy's birth, Sherlock realized how little he knew of children. Hamish, then, was his new case study.

If only the kid would give him more space.

"Listen, Mary and I were talking," John said slowly.

Sherlock eyed the man for three seconds. "You're going out of town."

"How did you…never mind." John grabbed four gallons of milk. "We're going to see her brother. We discussed it, and—"

"No."

"Well you don't even know what I was going to ask."

"I'm not watching Hamish."

"You're not busy," John argued. Sherlock looked at the shelves absentmindedly and tried to put muffins in the basket. John placed them back, remembering why he never took Sherlock shopping.

"I can't take care of him. I don't know the first thing about it."

"You've had plenty of practice. Just do what you've been doing. Play with him, put him to bed. No experiments, though. Do you understand? And I don't want you using the stove."

Sherlock nodded passively.

"You don't leave him alone, either. Okay? We'll only be gone for the weekend. I'm sure you can handle it."

Sherlock doubted it. And, in all honestly, John did a little bit, too.


	5. Chapter 5

From his chair, Sherlock stared at Hamish. Hamish stared back from the floor, sucking on a lollipop Sherlock had found under the couch. It had shut him up for a few minutes.

John and Mary had said their goodbyes just ten minutes prior. Oddly enough, it was Mary who exuded faith that the boys would be fine on their own. It took seven minutes for John to finally say goodbye, not before delivering a final warning.

_No experiments. No cases. No cooking. No ditching. Promise me._

"Where's Daddy?" Hamish asked.

"Didn't you hear him? He went away for the weekend with your mother."

Hamish stared.

"Why?"

"Your uncle is being difficult again. Cocaine this time, I think. Your mom thinks she can do something about it. She can't. The man's a dealer now, too; I'm fairly certain. He's in too deep. Addictions don't just go away."

"Additions?" Hamish asked.

"Sorry, John. I know I said too much," Sherlock said instinctively, but John was nowhere to be found. Oh. Sherlock was usually scolded for being too honest with Hamish. "No, _addictions_."

"Oh. What does that mean?"

Twenty minutes away by taxi, John was fidgeting with his shirt collar. It was all a mistake. He shouldn't have let Mary talk him into this.

"Dear?" Mary asked. She had a way of reading his mind, even when she was working on her crossword puzzle. "It'll be fine. I promise. Sherlock can take care of Hamish fine. He's seen us do it for years."

"What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I know. I'm not worried about that."

She put her puzzle off to the side. "Then what's troubling you?"

John looked out the window and sighed. "I'll miss them. That's all." He looked at Mary and laughed at himself. "I know it's stupid. I just wish we could have brought them along."

Grabbing his hand, Mary looked him in the eyes and smiled. "It's not stupid."

The game went like this. Sherlock ate two marshmallows—a green one and a pink one—and threw a yellow one into Hamish's mouth. They hated the yellow ones. If Hamish caught it, he got to pick which color he got next, and Sherlock had to eat two yellow ones. If he missed, he was stuck with yellow.

The pair was three-fourths through the bag when John opened the door. "Boys!" he screamed. The marshmallow game wasn't too disturbing—even though he preferred the two didn't get much sugar—but the rest of the flat was horrendous. The kitchen table was already cluttered with vials and liquids; Hamish's toys were everywhere, literally everywhere, as were his clothes and some of Sherlock's. Next to Sherlock's shoulder were the files on three upcoming cases, two of which contained graphic images. Worst of all, something like smoke was coming out of the stove.

Hamish looked down instinctively; Sherlock froze. John ran into the kitchen, pulled out a fire extinguisher (their ninth that year), and returned to the living room. Tapping his foot, crossing his arms, glaring into Sherlock's soul…the soldier was back.

"Would you like to explain yourself?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and threw a pink marshmallow to Hamish. "We wanted cake."

"You wanted cake."

"Yeah."

"What did I say about using the stove?"

"Not to."

"But what did you do?"

"I used it. But…"

"And what about the vials? Were you experimenting?"

"I was setting up for one, but I wasn't going to start until you came home and—"

"And the mess you've made?"

Hamish pulled on his father's pant leg. "We were just playing, Daddy. 'Lock was teaching me stuff."

John picked up his son and sighed. "Was he, now?"

He nodded somberly. "Mm-hmm. I know a new word."

"And what would that be?"

"Addicted."

John eyed Sherlock, a glare that meant _if you told him about his uncle, you're not leaving this flat for a month_.

"I even know what it means!" Hamish said proudly. He jumped out of his father's arms and into Sherlock's lap. "Me and 'Lock are addicted to you and Mommy."

John laughed and shook his head. "No, Hamish, that's not—"

"Yes, Daddy. 'Lock says that he's been addicted to you for a long time. Addition…no, addiction…it means that you can't live without it. He says we can't live without you, 'cause you know how to take care of us."

John cleared his throat and took a step back. He looked at Sherlock, who wouldn't dare make eye contact with anyone in the room. Stepping over, he poked Hamish on the nose and gently placed him down. He looked at Sherlock and ruffled his hair. "I'm addicted to you guys, too. That's why we came back." Sherlock looked up. "We didn't want to spend the weekend without our family."

Hamish squealed and ran into his room to start packing his miniature suitcase. He ran back out and tapped his father on the back. "Dad?" he asked.

"What, son?"

"What does 'cocaine' mean?"

John grabbed Sherlock by the ear, dragged him into the kitchen, and had a very long conversation with him about a new word: appropriate.


	6. Chapter 6

The three managed to cram into the back of a cab. Hamish sat in the middle, trying (with no success) to hold Sherlock's hand.

"We're cleaning up the second we get back," John threatened after he gave instructions. He wasn't actually mad anymore; his face was still slightly flushed with his boys' compliments. Yet the two had behaved incorrectly and, despite emotions, he was required to be the strict parental figure.

Sherlock gently swatted Hamish's hand away and tucked his own into his coat pocket. John sighed; he'd spent nearly half an hour trying to convince Sherlock not to take his coat—it was in the seventies—but the man was persistent. Now he was hot, stubborn, and cranky.

"Cocaine," little Hamish murmured. He loved the new word, especially after realizing it wasn't exactly allowed.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Daddy."

"Where does Uncle live?" Sherlock asked, purposely changing the subject. He glared at Hamish, who was sure not to make eye contact.

"Deduce it," John challenged after a pause. Sherlock was slowly growing farther from his old ways; he had picked up a habit—probably from Hamish—of asking questions instead of simply finding out the answer on his own. The quiet was, John admitted, a nice break, but the man he knew as Sherlock was slowly deteriorating away.

The answer—down to the very street—was given forty seconds later. John smiled. At least Sherlock hadn't lost his touch.

"You and Mary had a fight?" Sherlock asked. Hamish and John simultaneously frowned. John sighed, realizing he'd turned Sherlock's brain back on.

"Not in front of Hamish, Sherlock," John threatened. He patted his son on the shoulder and cleared his throat.

"We'll talk later, then."

"No, we won't," John said, absolutely, and Sherlock fell silent. "Go on. It'll be a long ride. Play I-Spy with Hamish or something."

Hamish's ears perked up. He loved the game, but only when Sherlock played. His dad would name a color, usually—"I spy something yellow"—and then waited for Hamish to correctly guess the mystery item. That was alright, but Sherlock's way was much more exciting. He pointed out people. "Widow. Lawyer. Oldest sibling. Secretary." Usually, especially on car rides, Hamish didn't try to guess. He just liked watching Sherlock _think_.

Sometimes—and these were the times Hamish liked best—his father tried to guess. He was usually wrong, but the faint smirk on Sherlock's face was worth the game. He was usually nice enough to point out how he knew all those things about those people.

Every once in a while, though, Hamish was afraid to play. The detective was once mumbling people quicker than normal; he and John were fighting over milk or something earlier that day, and the game was played merely as an opportunity to show off. "Birthday today. Divorced. Tourist. Moriarty. College student." Daddy had stopped the cab, grabbed Sherlock, and told him to point. He did, and—long story short—John pulled a gun on a very innocent and very, very confused, frightened man. Hamish had stayed in the car while his father apologized, explained something, and dragged Sherlock over to a nearby bench. It was one of the only times Hamish ever saw Sherlock and his father cry.

More commonly, Sherlock would get himself into trouble after pointing out a prostitute or drug dealer. Today, though, Sherlock was considerate, thinking before he spoke. Hamish guessed one out of seventeen correctly.

"John," Sherlock said when he had grown bored. "Do we have to stay long?"

"Hmm?" John looked up from his phone and took off his glasses. "We're spending the weekend. What's the problem? Uncle Henry likes you."

Sherlock scowled. "No he doesn't."

"Sure he does. He gave you that magnifying glass for Christmas last year. Remember?"

"It had a crack in it."

"Behave, Sherlock. Hamish, no, don't take off your shoes. We're about to pull up. Sherlock, take off your coat. It's only getting warmer. No I—did it look like I was asking? Oh, you wore your purple shirt? It's just Uncle…you know what, never mind. It's fine. Hamish, see Mom?"

Sherlock looked at Mary as they pulled up and cleared his throat. They hadn't met at Henry's house; Mary had requested that they meet her at the local hospital. Probably, they'd all assumed, because Henry had already committed to rehab—or relapse. "John."

"Really, Sherlock, not now."

"John, listen to me." The doctor paid the driver and let Hamish climb over him and to his mother. "Please," Sherlock tried.

John crossed his arms. _ Please_ only made an appearance if Sherlock was desperate. "What's wrong?"

Sherlock looked at Mary once more just to be sure—he didn't need to, no, and there was no way he was wrong, but he so, so wanted to be—and looked back to John.

"Why didn't you tell me Mary was dying?"


	7. Chapter 7

How could John have told him?

He looked at the remains of his friend, the man who fell once, years ago, and was now falling apart again. The good doctor's hand was on top of Sherlock's before he knew it was moving. The curls on Sherlock's head were pressed down from leaning his head against the seat; several strands were burnt from previous experiments. His purple shirt was crinkled and faded from continuous wear, and his shoes were not so much black as they were stone gray. Cramming his eyebrows together in concern and annoyance, Sherlock gave him the same look John received when Sherlock thought, for one split second, that John was Moriarty.

How could he tell him?

It wasn't like he enjoyed hiding things from Sherlock. Yes, Mary was dying, cancer slowly eating her livelihood away. The trip for Uncle Henry was a lie, one John wasn't proud of, but it was necessary. John and Mary needed more tests done, needed more time together, needed to escape for a few days. Both agreed. This weekend would have worked if they just…if they just hadn't missed their boys so much that it hurt. Hamish didn't need to know. No. He wouldn't know the truth until after the fate had arrived, perhaps until years after. The plan for Sherlock was generally the same—keep him in the dark as long as possible—but, as it sadly seemed, that time was up.

He tried to speak, to find the right words, but he didn't think they existed. Could he be blunt? _Sherlock, I was so happy when you came home. So happy. I thought I'd lost you forever. But Mary and I…we soon noticed…problems. Something happened to you. You were dependent. Needy. I couldn't let you out of my sight for two minutes without something being on fire or you having a mental breakdown. Mycroft said it was Moriarty's doing. He had someone talk to you while you were gone, yes? One of his assassins? Henchmen? I still don't know. But you were lonely, and you let a stranger in, and he…told you things. Told you that you'd never have me in your life again. Told you that you were a failure. Useless. That you'd die alone. Then you came back, and you learned of Mary and of Hamish, and your planted fears became—in your mind—reality. Something clicked in your brain, maybe in your soul, and you cracked. You were as dependent and scared as…as a child._

Instead, John hugged his friend awkwardly in the confines of the cab. Sherlock froze, at first. "I should have told you about Mary," John said plainly. "I just didn't know how. I wanted to protect you. I'm sorry."

Sherlock released himself from the hug and blinked, trying to hide a few tears. He shook his head and cleared his throat. "John, we're supposed to protect each other. That was the deal. Remember?"

John smiled faintly, his heart aching like it did when he first found out about Mary's condition. No one knew that, sometimes, John woke to screams in the middle of the night as Sherlock dreamed of falling. No one saw John cradle Sherlock in his arms, whispering that it would be alright. No one, either, knew that sometimes John just _watched _Sherlock as the great detective stared out a window, yearning for something that John did not know and could not give. And, definitely, no one knew—nor would they ever know—that sometimes Sherlock just hugged John—randomly, sometimes in the middle of the afternoon or during breakfast, because Sherlock just needed to make sure that John was still there. And, really, John needed to know it, too. "Yes, Sherlock. I remember."


	8. Chapter 8

John was never really sure if Sherlock liked Mary. He tolerated her, yes, and even obeyed her. She only had to ask once for a room to be cleaned or an experiment to cease, and it was done (whereas John usually had to ask three times over a period of several hours and argumentative discussions). When she asked questions, he would answer politely, albeit briefly. But this was respect, not love.

Yet, as Sherlock got out of the cab, he went straight to Mary, bent down, and gave her a long, firm hug. The woman looked at John in shock, then in bliss, as she hugged him back. Sherlock removed himself from her and gave her direct eye contact (something he rarely gave anyone nowadays) and grabbed her by the shoulders. "I'm sorry I didn't notice sooner. I should have."

She tilted her head and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Oh, Sherlock. Don't ever be sorry for anything." Hamish pulled on her pant leg, apparently wanting to be involved in the love fest. Sherlock picked him up—perhaps, John thought, for the first time since his birth—and gave him his hand.

Looking at his family, the soldier held back tears. His wife was dying. Yes. It would not be easy, but he would get through it. He had Hamish, and he had Sherlock.

Sherlock wanted to talk, to ask a million questions, but Hamish's presence hindered any specificity. "Do you, um…I mean, is there a chance that…"

John walked over, took Hamish from Sherlock's arms, and shook his head. "Don't know. We get test results today, but…it's not looking good, buddy." Mary nodded, looking surprisingly calm, and squeezed John's hand. They'd get through it.

"Let's see, then," Sherlock said, already walking towards the building.

"Well they're not ready yet," John said. Sherlock turned around, defeated. "How about we grab some lunch? We have a few hours to kill."

_Kill_. Sherlock shuttered at the word. He would miss Mary. She fed him (even when he didn't want to be fed) and made sure he was in bed by nine; sometimes she even told John to let him work on a case or two. Yes, Sherlock would miss her, but his heart ached stronger for John. He didn't want to watch John lose someone again.

The four climbed into Mary's car—a loan from Uncle Henry, who did live nearby but hadn't actually fallen back into the world of drugs. Mary drove and spoke to Hamish, asking him how his time with Sherlock was (Hamish brought up the marshmallows but, gratefully, omitted the part about cocaine). Sherlock and John were silent, a new language with which they learned to communicate. _Don't let anything happen to her, _Sherlock said with a sigh. _I'll do my best, _John nodded.

Even before their arrival to the café, Sherlock had decided he would not eat. Neither John nor Mary could make him. Hamish, though no Sherlock, could already read body language, and knew this to be his plan. He decided, then, that he would follow suit and not eat, either. John, being well versed in his boys, was fully aware of the scheme; the second the waiter came to the table, John ordered four Greek salads, four waters, a basket of pita bread, and four turkey sandwiches. Sherlock and Hamish responded with glares but said nothing.

"Sherlock, dear, eat your food," Mary said after they'd been served. She and John were already halfway done with their salads. "You need your strength."

"I'm fine," he mumbled, ignoring the scowl from John.

"I wasn't asking, hun'."

He picked up his fork, stabbed a piece of lettuce, and put it back down. "Excuse me," he said, and walked to the bathroom.

John sighed and removed his napkin from his lap. "I'll go check on him. Hamish, eat."

He found Sherlock sitting on the floor, leaned against the door of the farthest stall. Marble sinks and crystal-looking floors encompassed the restroom; Sherlock looked out of place, disheveled and depressed, head in hands. John sat next to him and sighed. "You know, no one wanted this to happen."

"How are you…okay?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. "I don't know. I've…we've known for a few months now. I'm not okay, but I'll survive. I've been through a lot, you know." The two shared a look for a moment, but just as quickly as it had come it was gone, and Sherlock was again burying his face.

"It's not…"

"Nothing's fair, Sherlock."

"The results?"

"They'll be in soon. Then we'll know."

Sherlock lifted his face, now covered in tears. There was no use trying to hide it anymore. He scooted closer to John and buried his face in his chest. "You know," John heard in a muffled voice, "she's…Mom, to me."

"Oh, Sherlock. I know."

"She can't die, too."

"Too?" John forced Sherlock's head up by placing his thumb and pointer finger under his chin.

"Don't make me eat," he begged. "Eating makes me sleep. I can't sleep tonight. I won't."

"Sherlock."

"Someone always dies in my dreams," Sherlock said, laying his head on John's shoulder. "Usually it's me. Falling. You know. But sometimes I just_ tell_ you it's me. You die in my dreams most nights." He closed his eyes and sighed. "Now, Mary will, too."

John put his left arm around Sherlock and let him cry. _I should have known, _he thought, but then again he'd always known that Sherlock wasn't completely honest about his nightmares. He wanted to reach into the man's mind and erase all the lies he'd been fed, all the ways he'd been hurt.

John Watson, military doctor and devoted father, was not a praying man, but he made an exception. _Please, God._ _Give him rest._


	9. Chapter 9

The family elected to get a hotel. Well, technically, John decided a foreign room might be the best way to get Sherlock to sleep. Going back to 221B wouldn't offer anything but memories and a temptation to play the violin through the night.

Mary would be fine, probably. The test results were hopeful. When the couple announced the findings, Sherlock broke straight into a sob, hugged Mary for a few seconds, and walked back into the waiting room to be alone. "Glad" didn't even begin to cover it—John would not lose his beloved—but Sherlock knew that his nights would, despite reality, be plagued with Mary's death.

When John announced that Mary was driving them to a local hotel, Sherlock pressed an imaginary break and offered a plethora of tasks the family needed to perform over the night—the town needed exploring, cases needed overlooking, and Hamish needed a sudden education. All attempts were swiftly shut down.

The room had two king-sized beds, a half-kitchen, a pull-out couch, two restrooms, and a dining area. John smiled, glad they'd decided to splurge with the deliverance of good news. "Hamish, you'll sleep on the couch, okay?" His son nodded and collapsed onto the cushions.

"Sherlock, which bed to you want, dear?" Mary asked, running a hand over his back. He cringed and, without answer, sat on the bed furthest from the door.

John sat next to him and handed over a granola bar. "Come on, you haven't eaten anything but marshmallows today. Please."

No answer. Mary cleared her throat and grabbed Hamish. "Here, let's get you ready for bed," she said, and disappeared into the restroom. John shut the door behind her and faced Sherlock, crossed arms and all.

"You want to talk?"

"No."

"Mary's going to be okay. You realize that?" John asked, but Sherlock turned and stared out the window. "I won't go asleep until you do," he tried. "If that's what you're worried about, don't be. I'll wake you up if you're having dreams."

Sherlock glanced over then looked away. "I need to look over a case."

"We purposely didn't bring any. It's been a long day. Rest." He sighed and undid the bed covers himself. "Get in. I'm not asking." Sherlock stared; John bit his lip and bent down, starting to take off Sherlock's shoes. His socks. The detective let him and kept his attention on the window, not making any indication that John was even in the room.

"Sherlock Holmes."

John had never seen Sherlock obey that quickly. He'd only used the full name a handful of times; the words were always accompanied by the stance of a soldier and the glare of a father. It always worked, and John was careful not to use it too often. Once, John threatened to get Mycroft involved if Sherlock didn't eat. There were no leftovers that day.

"John?" Sherlock climbed underneath the covers, placed his head on the pillow, and looked up with the puppy eyes he didn't know he had.

"What is it?" John took off his watch and climbed into his own bed. Mary emerged from the bathroom, placing a half-asleep Hamish on the couch and turning out the lights.

"Never mind," he said, and turned to sleep.

Two hours later, every one awoke to screams coming from the corner of the room. The soldier bolted out of bed and flicked the light switch; the mother grabbed her son and huddled near the bed.

"Sherlock!" John ran over and shook him. "Sherlock, wake up! It's just a nightmare!"

He awoke and looked at John, unsatisfied, and then at Mary. Tears fell as he saw Hamish bunched up in her arms; Sherlock grabbed him and buried his face into his neck. "Don't do that," Sherlock yelled. "Don't ever do that again, do you understand?"

John took Hamish, who was now crying, and returned him to Mary, who took him into the hallway. Sherlock sat on the floor, running his hands through his hair and panting.

"What can't he do again? Sherlock, look at me."

"Make it stop, John."

"Sherlock, what happened?"

"Hamish…I killed Hamish."


	10. Chapter 10

For twelve days, Sherlock wouldn't talk to Hamish. He wouldn't even look at him. Every time the kid came in the room, Sherlock's head hang low and he silently retreated to a random corner of the house. He'd even developed a habit of sleeping on the living room floor instead of their shared bedroom.

John tried (desperately) to get Sherlock over his dream. Days one thru four were spent trying to get him to talk, even if just a few words. Day five thru ten were spent explaining that it was okay, that he didn't actually kill his brother, that it would all work out, that he wasn't a monster.

Sherlock spent day eleven crying in his bedroom. Day twelve, John had had enough.

"Tell me the dream," he demanded, sitting on Sherlock's bed. The detective sat at the headboard, gripping his pillow as a life jacket and shaking his head. Mary had taken Hamish out of the way, probably to the grocery store or the park. John wasn't really sure.

"It was a dream, you know. That's all."

Nothing.

"Sherlock. I'll call Mycroft."

To John's utter horror, Sherlock shrugged.

"What do I have to say to make you talk to me? I won't be mad. You know that, yes? You didn't kill my son."

Sherlock buried his face in the pillow and sighed. "Moriarty…he gave me a choice." He looked up and clutched the sheets. "At St. Bart's, you know. I had to…_jump_. I had to jump. Again. But this time…"

John gripped his best friend's hand and waited.

"I could save one person. The other had to jump with me." Sherlock looked at John in a way he never had before; his eyes were no longer cold chasms wounded by years of insults and abuse. They were pools of tears, tears formed out of pain and suffering and loss. They were the eyes of a creature whose one desire was to be finally, forever, understood.

"I saved you. John. I saved you, and…I made Hamish come with me."

John let him cry for a while and tried to hold back his own tears. "That man is dead, Sherlock. He's gone. You don't need to worry about him anymore."

"But if I was asked to make that decision again…John, I don't know what I would do. What am I supposed to do?"

"You'll never have to. Understand? It was a dream; nothing more. Alright?"

"How can I look—" Sherlock's voice cut off suddenly as emotion choked down his words. "How can I look at Hamish?"

"You've always protected him. Remember that one day he scraped his arm? You fixed it right up, didn't you? And you watched him over the weekend a while ago. You've taught him the art of deduction. He's one of the smartest of his age, Sherlock, and I don't think that's from our genes. It's from being around you. I mean it. You're the best thing that's ever happened to this kid. He has a protector. A brother."

"He's not my brother," Sherlock said, and John flinched. "I'm…damaged, aren't I? There's something wrong with me. You never took care of me like this before…before I fell. I haven't worked on cases or anything in weeks. I'm an emotional wreck, John; I know it and I hate it. Tell me what happened to me. Please. I need to know so I can—I don't know—so I can learn to do something about it. Give me any puzzle to solve and I can, you know, but not myself."

After two hours, when John told the truth and both men had their cry, Sherlock hugged him. "Can you help me get well?" he asked timidly.

"You're already on your way," John said, patting his head. "But, yes. I'll be here every step of the way."


End file.
